


The Art of Burning

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: The Things Charkov Reads at Night [3]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: BDSM, Coming Untouched, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Tarapika, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 01:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19780315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Pikalov's visit to Tarakanov's tent is surprising but not exactly unwelcomed.





	The Art of Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Подарок для кого-то очень особенного ♥

_Some say the world will end in fire,_  
_Some say in ice._  
_From what I've tasted of desire,_  
_I hold with those who favor fire._  
_But if it had to perish twice_  
_I think I know enough of hate_  
_To say that for destruction ice_  
_Is also great_  
_And would suffice._

_R. Frost_

**The Art of Burning**

*****

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Over the years, Tarakanov has come to love the monotonous sound of the falling rain. The sun has long set; it is almost midnight, yet he still sits at the large table in his tent. These days – weeks, work never seem to cease, not even if he works constantly until late at night. He has always found long hours of sleep highly overrated – three hours is more than enough, and he often spends these hours right there in his tent, in the adjusting part where he had set up a small sleeping room.

It is cold outside, he notices as he steps outside for a few moments to refresh his mind, too cold actually for this time of the year. He loves summer best, especially the nights; the moments of carefreeness that often come with it, the laughter; he loves winter, too – or rather has to come to love it, just as the rain. 

_Snow..._ he thinks, stepping back inside. Despite his aversion against winter, the snow has never failed to bring a smile to his lips, not even the war could change that. Hot days and even colder nights; snowy mountains, towering high into the sky; endless fields of crops in the plains. He sees the landscape unfold behind his closed eyes as if it only was yesterday (as a matter of fact it isn’t), even remembers the smell of the soil. As he allows his memories to drift he feels his smile grow.

Many others will never understand that soldiers often think fondly of the times spent at war. But then, how should they, lacking the experience of it? Despite the horrors and all the ugliness, to soldiers war had always been more than that. Lasting friendships are made, precious memories collected, sometimes even love.

The catastrophe of Chernobyl is not so much different than war: equal horrors, the same art of misinformation, lies; human sacrifices – hundreds, thousands; the plaguing knowledge of the bitter truth. And yet – amid the ugliness, the strangest of friendships begin to blossom. He has seen it then, he sees it now – a glance at Legasov and Shcherbina had been enough.

He knows, but knowledge of such compromising facts isn’t exactly his business, never was. Everything he hopes for is that other eyes are blind, or at least turn a blind eye on them, just as does day after day. Then, he opens his eyes again and forces his thoughts back to the reports, spread across the table.

* * *

“Still awake?” The voice makes Tarakanov jump, pen falling out of his hand. He hadn’t even heard the flap of the tent opening as he is so occupied with his work, brooding over the reports for hours now. He turns around, smiling; not to see who pays him a visit at such an unruly hour because that he already knows.

_I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world. (*)_

“You look tired...” Pikalov says, taking a few steps towards the table.

 _So do you._ Tarakanov doesn’t say it.

“I am,” he states instead. He gives Pikalov a curt nod of acknowledgment, followed by a smile, unbetraying. He won’t deny anything. They all are deadly tired - exhausted, one way or another. “I am glad that you have come.”

It is the neutral form of saying _‘I missed you’_ , a language both of them understand perfectly well.

Pikalov comes to stand behind Tarakanov’s chair. “It has been a while.”

 _Yes._ Tarakanov sighs inwardly. It has been a while indeed, so long that he doesn’t even remember how long exactly.

 _Weeks, Months?_ What does it matter, when Pikalov now is here?

“You had work to do,” Tarakanov tells him. They all had, not necessarily in the same place. “I have work to do tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, most likely for many months more. Right here.”

“I have work to do _tonight_.”

The unashamed ambiguity makes Tarakanov’s breath catch in his lungs. 

Pikalov retrieves two glasses, a bottle of vodka as if his words are the most casual thing to say. The sound of heavy footsteps is followed by the noise of setting the bottle down on the table. “Drink. You are tense.”

As always, he obeys.

Simultaneously, Pikalov’s hands fly to Tarakanov’s shoulders, kneading them as if to prove a point. There isn’t much to prove though. It’s fairly obvious just how tense his muscles are. Tarakanov leans into the touch, rolling his shoulders in silent approval. It feels… nice like this, Pikalov’s thumbs pressing right next to his spine but that’s not all of it.

As another glass of vodka burns down his throat, his blood begins to heat up as well.

The vodka, obviously.

_It’s been a while..._

He refills the glass himself for a second time and drinks it down in one go, relishing in the burning sensation before he allows his head to dip backward against Pikalov’s chest. Like this, he establishes a constant closeness, mind wandering towards the idea they have been discussing for a while.

There isn’t time for lengthy discussions. A few hours if at all, no time for idle words, not that this has ever been Tarakanov’s strength. War has taught him to be pragmatic and efficient, both at work and in life. It’s something not everybody understands and he’s glad that Pikalov does. They are made out of equal material, carved from the same stone. Otherwise, their relationship (is it even that, he sometimes wonders) wouldn’t work.

It’s as if Pikalov reads his mind. “That specific scenario hasn’t left my thoughts,” Pikalov says, lighting a cigarette.

A cloud of smoke fills the tent. A raise of eyebrows, a curious yet suggestive smile, one of the sorts Tarakanov hopes will incline Pikalov. “Tell me,” he rasps, probably a little too obvious

“And if they are listening?”

Tarakanov shakes his head. “They aren’t. I’ve made sure of that.” He hadn’t – they were busy listening elsewhere. The result, however, is exactly the same so he doesn’t see a need to tell Pikalov that.

“Why waste words on it though? Aren’t we known to let actions speak rather than hollow words and soft-soaping lies?” The hint of a smile flitters across Pikalov’s face.

_Pragmatic. Efficient._

He isn’t exactly wrong. “So I have been told, yes.”

Pikalov laughs, a sound Tarakanov could lose himself in. “Your own words if I remember correctly.”

_Observant._

There’s a brief moment of silence then, precious moments in which Tarakanov can watch Pikalov’s smile transform. It is outright suggestive now, going straight down to Tarakanov’s cock.

“And yet here we are, talking.” Feigned admonishment tints Pikalov’s voice.

Tarakanov tries to put equal suggestiveness into his voice. “We don’t have to, you know?”

Pikalov bends down, lips now pressing against Tarakanov’s ear. A lick, a smile, the cherished press of hands against his throat, followed a whisper. “Correct. Get up.”

The response of Tarakanov’s body to Pikalov’s command is Pavlovian. He feels himself harden, cock straining against his uniform. Tarakanov bites his lips against the impatience of his desire that’s almost making him obey all too hastily.

He forces his body into stillness, then obeys. And so he stands up, entirely unashamed that his erection shows when he turns around to face Pikalov.

Pikalov looks him up and down, filthy appreciation shining from his eyes. Then, he steps forward and reaches out to palm Tarakanov’s bulge, hard enough that a moan falls from Tarakanov’s lips.

“Such obvious impatience reflects poorly on your training.” Pikalov’s voice is authoritative, low; the hand against his cock persisting.

“Does it?” Tarakanov teases, eyebrows raised. It takes two to play the game they love to play with each other.

“Yes.” The grip intensifies, edging towards discomfort. “Undress.”

Then, the hand is gone. There’s mirth in Pikalov’s eyes; a hint of sadism – want, desire, and attraction, and Tarakanov falls for every single one of it.

* * *

Settling back in the chair, Pikalov urges Tarakanov to begin. And so Tarakanov does, quite obediently so. He takes his time unbuttoning his shirt first, then sliding it off his arms. Perhaps he should simply toss it aside but such messiness isn’t him, so he neatly folds it and places it on the table, next to the reports. It’s these little details Pikalov appreciates, being the tidiest person Tarakanov has ever met.

The boots are next, followed by the belt, which he removed completely, cheeks heating up all of a sudden as his mind remembers the stinging pain the boiled leather can cause.

Pikalov thinks exactly the same; the soft sigh of appreciation tells Tarakanov as much and once more impatience reigns his mind. The trousers are quickly discarded and neatly folded, and now, completely naked he can feel Pikalov’s burning gaze upon his skin.

Tarakanov is close and yet so far; he can only hope that Pikalov doesn’t delight tonight in making him wait, at least not longer than necessary.

“So?” Tarakanov’s voice is a strained breath. 

Pikalov raises one eyebrow, then looks to the left, towards where the camp bed stands.

Under Pikalov’s hungry gaze Tarakanov walks towards it and spreads himself out on the bed so that nothing is left to the imagination, one leg casually drawn up. He begs and challenges Pikalov with the look he gives him, hoping Pikalov feels inclined.

Tarakanov’s unashamed brazenness brings a spark to Pikalov’s eyes. He strides towards the bed without any hesitation, retrieving a rope from the little bag he has brought along.

Tying Tarakanov up is a quick affair; each movement of Pikalov’s hand is following a cherished routine. After all, they have a certain experience with it, although the metal frame is something new, as is the creaking noise of the camp bed.

_It doesn’t matter._

The concept of it is cruel; it’s maddening and yet at the same time relinquishing control, completely and utterly is everything Tarakanov needs, these days perhaps more than ever. The burden of Chernobyl and all the ugliness that comes with it sits heavily upon his shoulder. Never before has he felt so emotionally drained. Each day he tries his best, gives a hundred and fifty percent each day but every night right before sleep, he knows it’ll never be enough. During the days he wears his arrogance as a perfect disguise, especially around those who he doesn’t know well – or enjoys, of late for the simple reason not to reveal how he much impact the catastrophe truly has on him. Although the motives are different, it’s not so unlike when Pikalov and he had originally met. It had served well to hide his vulnerability and emotions until he’d been certain Pikalov’s feelings matched his own.

Pikalov’s hands are now skimming Tarakanov’s sides, fingertips tracing the outlines of his muscles in teasing gentleness and lingering on the V-shaped muscles of his lower stomach. Despite his age, his body is steeled by daily training and he’s quite proud of it, yet his own pride matters little when his eyes fall on Pikalov’s calloused hands; he knows of what these hands are capable of, knows how much power and strength lays in them and he loves every bit of it.

“Magnificent.” The honeyed voice is laced with unmistakable darkness, one that brings back memories and makes Tarakanov’s stomach flutter.

He’s nervous (he always is), he’s excited, but most of all he’s anticipating what is about to follow. The thrill of the unknown, the anxiety that comes with it, a breathtaking mixture he’s come to love.

Tarakanov lets his gaze drift towards the nightstand with the drawer and without words Pikalov understands. He opens it and retrieves a box of matches and a bright red candle from it.

Pikalov gives Tarakanov an incredulous stare. “ _That_ red? Seriously?”

Tarakanov shrugs. “I was lucky to find any at all.”

Pikalov shakes his head in amusement. “Perhaps I should take a picture afterward… send it to Moscow. They might appreciate such devoted service. Perhaps you’ll be awarded yet another silver cigarette box.”

Tarakanov can’t help the chuckle. “You’re an idiot.”

The slap that follows is gentle, accompanied by a forgiving smile. Yet Tarakanov’s eyes grow wide, all the more when Pikalov lights the candle.

An incline of Pikalov’s head,

followed by Tarakanov nodding,

and the matter is set.

When they are like this, ordinary words are becoming entirely unnecessary. It’s a world of glances; of lingering touches, varying in its intensity; a parallel world of illusions and desire, allowing Tarakanov’s mind to divert.

In fact, it has taken quite a while for Tarakanov to allow his fantasies to escape his mind; fantasies of the sort, which always bring equal fascination and repulsion to his face. Such desires are ill-befitting for his rank and status, or so he had told himself night after night. Allowing weakness –showing weakness is not what is expected of him; what he expects of himself.

Such thoughts are wiped off his mind the moment Pikalov sits down at the edge of the bed and brings the candle over Tarakanov’s chest, a good distance away. Tarakanov inhales deeply, bracing himself for what is about to come,

The first drop falls.

Tarakanov flinches.

It’s nothing like he has imagined it to be.

 _Drip_ – another drop falls.

Pikalov smiles.

“ _Breathe_.”

_Drip._

Tarakanov’s eyelids flutter.

The burn on his skin is maddening.

Pikalov chuckles at Tarakanov’s reaction, arching spine, and fluttering eyelids, as a drop of molten wax lands right above Tarakanov’s collarbone. It dries quickly and the pain vanishes until the next drop falls, and then another. Pain sings along his nerves and he flinches with every single drop landing on his sun-tanned skin but despite the obvious discomfort, he is still hard. He is always, no matter in what way he is spread out like an offering for Pikalov, naked and beautifully helpless.

For many months Tarakanov has burnt, in doubt and desire, afraid to share his dreams with Pikalov.

Yet in the end, the trust had won over hesitation and soon after, fantasies have become a blissful reality.

_Drip._

Tarakanov hisses.

Drip.

Pikalov stops for a moment, shifting on the bed.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Tarakanov’s flinching gives way to helpless trembling, partly caused by the fact that Pikalov is now sitting astride of him, fully clothed as always. His eyes drift from Pikalov’s face downwards and a smirk begins to form on his mouth: it’s impossible not to spot the bulge. 

As if to punish him for the judging smile, the following waterfall of red wax is perfectly centered where he’s the most sensitive, right below his belly button. Perhaps, he shouldn’t be surprised; after all, Pikalov’s hands know his body like nobody else. If he wasn’t restrained, he’d shoot upwards, and Pikalov knows it very well, having made that mistake once.

“Breathe!” Between whines and helpless pleas, Tarakanov somehow manages it.

“Vova,” Tarakanov lifts his head when for a moment Pikalov’s hand stills, surprised that he still feels phantom sensations on his skin. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to recreate the constellation we saw so brightly upon the night sky.” The words send a heady thrill down’ Tarakanov’s spine. “I think you do remember,” Pikalov says, his voice low and calm as his teeth graze along his collarbone. Of course, he does – how should he not?

The sky was so utterly dark in that strange country, the stars so very bright and often they have watched them together, lying on their backs with twined hands.

He still thinks of it with a smile as the wax drips down on his skin again, just as the rain falls outside – the same rhythm, the same fierce intensity. Tarakanov can’t suppress the shiver that winds so wonderfully up his spine, losing himself in the maelstrom of desires, losing himself in the intoxicating thrill of pain and lust. Pikalov’s tongue licks along one of Tarakanov’s nipple first, then closes his lips around the nub, sucking for a moment until a drop lands right there, on wet skin. A moan bleeds from his lips and it sends him over the edge – almost, mouth gaping open as he fights against his own release.

He doesn’t want this to end, not now, not yet, they just have started after all; not without having been granted permission also, because he simply loves the filthy whisper into his ear.

A glance, a nod and then the wax is poured down on him again. A wave of agony rips across his face, and he inhales shakily when a river of drops falls down on his abused skin, burning as if a thousand tiny fires are set ablaze. The distance is much less than it had ever been before, close enough that he can actually _feel_ the heat of the flame. It is the very reason why Pikalov watches his face closely for any subtle hints of too much discomfort. They’ve mastered the game they play over the years; the little reactions, silence lasting seconds too long. It’s none of it right now, he’s trashing against the sheets out of simple desperation; he’s whining because he’s so very close and yet Pikalov isn’t touching him, ignoring him simply to prolong his suffering.

There’s no mercy for him, not that he ever wants it. He likes it best when Pikalov is truly savage with him so that sweat drips down his body as his muscles tremble in exertion, screaming in protest against the restraints. In the end, he’s reduced to a quivering mess, overstimulated in his bonds, so very close to his release.

Begging doesn’t come easily to him but each time they are together like this, his response is utterly predictable. He’s not using words right now, but he’s begging all the same.

Pikalov places the candle asides and leans in, kissing the pendant resting on Tarakanov’s heaving chest and in response, his lips curve into a smile. The little gift made out of Lapis with golden veins running through it is their secret, invisible to prying and judging glances.

_3 years._

_Trust. Admiration. Love._

The thought is wiped off his mind when Pikalov leans in to capture his lips in a kiss, hard and possessive, one he returns with equal desire, contemplating his inability to touch.

And it’s enough. The kiss is all encouragement he needs to let go, utterly and completely, losing himself in the sweet bliss of the release he finds without even being touched. Tarakanov tries to keep his vision from blurring; he has to see his lover’s face, contorting beautifully in too many emotions to grasp as he chokes out Pikalov’s name, lips still pressed together. 

* * *

Pikalov’s hand lingers next to the lapis pendant before he begins to trace idle patterns across Tarakanov’s chest, his fingertips connecting dot after dot as if his skin is a canvas for him to draw. Then, he gently peels the wax away, dot after dot, kissing each red spot before he moves on. The abundance of patience on Pikalov’s side is breathtaking, it always is whenever they are together like this; and, if asked, it’s perhaps what he loves best. 

Only when the last drop is removed from Tarakanov’s skin Pikalov unties his hands, at last, giving him finally the opportunity to pull him close against his lips. Only rarely does impatience strike Tarakanov but somehow with Pikalov, he suddenly is eagerly impatient.

In times like these Tarakanov wants to say, _‘I will follow you to the ends of the world’_ yet he holds his silence because he knows that he will never be able to keep his promise; a fact he won’t forgive himself. Telling a lie is stealing someone’s right to the truth – it’s as simple as that.

Drifting back and forth between seconds of sleep and wakefulness, during which at one point Pikalov must have undressed, Tarakanov rolls onto his side, leaving just enough room for Pikalov to settle in front of him as he loves to do. As he does, snuggling close against Tarakanov’s body he places his arm around his waist, pulling him close, Pikalov’s back pressed against his chest. Tarakanov’s eyes fall shut and as he smells the scent in Pikalov’s hair his memories drift back to the day when first they have lain like this. Far away from the camp, in an endless field of poppies when slowly the pale moonlight gave way to the brightness of the sun, breaking through the haze of the night.

*

**Author's Note:**

> (*) From M. Miller's - The Song of Achilles *goes crying*
> 
> Alas ... why not sharing my writing playlist :D  
> Rammstein – Amour  
> Beseech – Gimme Gimme Gimme  
> ASP - Welcome  
> Eisregen – Wundwasser  
> In Extremo – Schwarzer Rabe  
> ASP – Ich will brennen  
> Eluveitie – Inis Mona  
> Nightwish – Imaginaerium  
> Deathstars – Semi-automatic


End file.
